This story is not over. Ya no está terminada esta historia.

Let me count your perfect dimensions.  Shaped like purity.  Viewed like preciosity. Placed upon a pedestal like a diamond to its setting.

It’s 2009 or 2010.  You see, I’ll never remember because it was so hot and muggy all the time.  I was drinking a lot for various reasons that I don’t care to remember.  Not because of the heat.  Because of the pain.  The pain of a first-real-love-soap-opera-like-toxic breakup, and a nobody-knows-behind-the-scenes secret that drove me insane.

The most difficult thing about keeping secrets that no one knows, is that they drive you crazy and make you think, feel, and do crazy, sometimes harmful, shit. – GRiZ

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/5935d865e4b0c670a3ce6797

It never helped that you called me a whore, or said I was crazy.  Which is what you did. Why? You still followed me everywhere.  You loved me, I think.

It was 2011.  My parents were getting a divorce and everybody seemed like they were on drugs.  My little brother told me with tears in his eyes, “You’ve changed,” as we sat on the concrete porch in front of my parents’.  I hadn’t changed, why was he hurting my feelings like that?  You came to visit me.  I’m sure you wanted to meet my dad, but I wasn’t sure that you wouldn’t judge me for not being rich like you.  And it wasn’t a good time for me to be around my family.  Do you even understand that? I want to start a fight with you just so I can find out why you never told me you loved me.  You never want to communicate–yet you never stop chasing me.

 

 

 

(footnote: At least I’m actually happy now! Imagine if we had gotten married way back then.  You’d be stuck with my melancholy a$$.)

 

 

 

 

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